Anna Raccoon Archives

Post navigation

Notting Hill Carnage.

by Anna Raccoon on August 26, 2014

It must be August Bank Holiday – London’s most affluent neighbourhood has been forced to board up its windows, board out the cat and the dog, send the children off to Rock in Cornwall – whose residents have similarly boarded up their properties – and prepare for the annual ‘distraction robbery’ extravaganza that is the Notting Hill Carnival.

Back in 1958, Majbritt Morrison, a Swedish ‘prostitute’, (as they were called in those days, though the Guardian calls her ‘the young, Swedish bride’ and the Independent a ‘sex worker’) was having a flaming row with her Jamaican husband and some of his Jamaican friends, outside a Notting Hill Gate tube station. Nobody knows what the row was about – but a group of white youths intervened. The next day they saw her again, during the course of their conversation, one of the white youths referred to her as a ‘black man’s trollop’. She was hit in the back with an iron bar – the Police ordered her to return inside – she refused and was arrested – the ensuing fracas was the origin of the 1958 ‘Race Riots’.

This event has been ‘celebrated’ every year since as the Notting Hill Carnival by millions of people who have no idea what they are ‘celebrating’. Or even, since a ‘carnival’ should properly be held immediately before Lent, that they are around six months late each year…

Every year, the contents of Brixton empties out of Notting Hill tube station, and sets out their drug stalls, sharpens their knives, flexes their pick pocketing fingers and prepares for the annual influx of ‘hip’ Londoners keen to celebrate cultural diversity, multi-cultural tolerance, and a chance to watch our long suffering police force smiling as over-weight Jamaican women grind their pubis’ against plod’s left leg in time honoured fashion, almost identical fashion to the groin grinding they would have endured when they were bussed up to Manchester the previous week-end to ensure that Gay Pride had a happy time twerking the local plod – selfies of this strange sexual practice are a staple of local newspaper coverage of such events.

Every year, the Chief Constable is rolled out of his normal parking place to assure the baffled crowd that this year ‘the event was relatively peaceful’ despite the fact that half of them are missing their wallets, some are still queueing for attention in the local Accident and Emergency department, and 250 of the drug dealers are noisily hammering on their cell door claiming that their arrest was ‘racist’ and demanding the attendance of the IPCC. One such dealer was relieved of two machine guns and a handgun, crack cocaine and around £78,000 in cash.

The ‘entertainment’ laid on to distract the various comedically dressed local politicians – (it is a given that in order to obtain favourable media coverage that you dress as a total moron and practice your ‘Dad dancing’), race relations advisors, and other ‘down wiv’ da youf’ media types whilst they are parted from their cash – occasionally in return for jerk chicken cooked under conditions they wouldn’t accept for their dog’s dinner, occasionally in return for their life, has improved marginally over the years. Children dressed and painted as Mau-mau warriors jig along to a variety of oil drums hammered enthusiastically by retired London Bus drivers who came over on the Windrush whilst their sons and grandsons continue their light fingered work.

In 2000, the Met Police did take their courage in one hand, if not both, and hold an inquiry which timidly declared that this annual remembrance ceremony of Majbritt being called a ‘black man’s trollop’ was the ‘the scene of extreme and unacceptable levels of crime and violence and unacceptable disruption to the life of the local community’. Complaints from residents include ‘excessive volume resulting in migraines, having to relocate pets because of the bass, damage to property, urination on property, broken glass etc, congestion of people traffic and impact on public safety, crime and disorder.’

One of the more curious aspects of the ‘carnival’ is that it is the Police who pay to clean up the blood and vomit from the streets (and themselves) – presumably to pacify the owners of the multi-million pound mansions forced to welcome this crowd to their neighbourhood – and it is you, the tax payer, right across London, who pays for the annual jamboree. Football clubs have to pay for their own policing.

This year there were 7,000 policemen, helicopters in the sky, armed intervention units, and it cost around £7,000,000.

Boris Johnson, the London mayor, said: “Carnival is a wonderful celebration and highlights what the Caribbean community does for London.

Sheesh! Why not hold it in Brixton next year? In the name of diversity, invite the BNP to blast their homes with ‘Jerusalem and Rule Britannia’ for three days, revellers dressed as eighteenth century soldiers in the Africa Corp can dance in the streets whilst the EDP nip round the back and beat up a few ‘innocent citizens’. Someone must be up for manning a stall selling half cooked horse-meat burgers?

It’s about time London ratepayers were given the chance to highlight what they do for the Caribbean community.

You can kick start this event by calling me a white man’s trollop if you like.

Take up the White Man’s burden The savage wars of peace Fill full the mouth of Famine And bid the sickness cease; And when your goal is nearest The end for others sought, Watch sloth and heathen Folly Bring all your hopes to nought.

Take up the White Man’s burden Have done with childish days The lightly proferred laurel, The easy, ungrudged praise. Comes now, to search your manhood Through all the thankless years Cold, edged with dear-bought wisdom, The judgment of your peers!

In my professional life as a sub-editor (long ago now) we sometimes thought that, having written a story, if its headline did not then ‘write itself’, there was no story. A bit of a simplification but truth in it.

It’s a small thing- but the way people refer to it as “Carnival”, rather than “the Carnival” really irritates me- even Boris Johnson is doing it. While it’s not my thing at all, I don’t really mind it happening, and I have a lot of friends who for some inexplicable reason seem to enjoy it. On that £7M policing bill- well I’d rather see it spent on policing a public festival than protecting minor royals and former politicians. It also allows the Met to pick up a few obvious bad guys (and keep them off the street for a while).

I am always struck by the fact that just down the road another ‘carnival’ takes place from mid July until mid September – I of course refer to the Proms. I rather doubt that in its 120 year history so much as one policeman has ever been called and the worst incident ever must have been the heckling during one of Dame Simon Rattle’s appearances. According to Margaret Hodge the event is not sufficiently vibrant which is why we now have to endure ‘fake proms’ with names like ‘The Doctor Who Prom’,’ The CeeBeebies Prom’ and ‘The Gay Prom – not that they call it that but when you invite the Pet Shop Boys to go legit with an orchestra and chorus and the text for the cantata is on Alan Turing that is whatever you may call it a ‘Gay Prom’ – and then there is the ghastliness of ‘The Last Night Prom’. I obviously have no sense of fun.

I’m a white guy from a Provincial Northern Backwater that was, until an influx of refugees in the past 15/20 years, almost entirely white. So white, in fact, that the local nightclubs used to be inundated with young black men from many miles away who would be sure of the attention from “curious” l’il white girlies that they didn’t command so much attention from in their own more ‘integrated’ areas. I’m friends with people of all races, backgrounds but these sort of “Multi-Cultural Celebrations” all seem so forced to me. I can embrace other cultures if I choose to. Trouble is, this isn’t just the age of enforced “Multi-Culturalism” but of enforced “celebration” too. Just make sure you get permission from the “authorities” when you’re planning you’re celebrations. You’ll find me some place else.

I lived for several years around this area, firstly at one end of Portobello Road & later just off the other. The first year was at least interesting, as I’d never before seen thousands of people voluntarily choosing to be segments of the world’s longest human centipede (from which there was no escape once joined). The sight of boarded-up shops is a grim one; but the cannier shop-keepers found a way to keep going: tiny-serving hatches two-metres off the ground, opening to dangle over-priced cans to the thirsty throng. An apocalyptical image…

Tended to avoid it as much as possible after that, but as they were herding past our front-door it wasn’t easy. A particularly miserable memory: one year we were holed-up inside the flat when the electricity ran out. We had one of those ‘key’ type meters (which might offer a glimpse into the glamorous life being led!) but the usual charging-points were obviously all closed. It was a choice of sit inside in silence, listening to the fun being had elsewhere, or venture out & hope to find a petrol-station on the periphery, which is what we did. A several-mile trek… By the time we’d returned it was all but over, the smallest of small mercies.

I can recall being around riots in Peckham back in the 80’s and always wondered why der volk were burning down their own neighbourhood when Dulwich was just down the road. Perhaps they’re learning. Be afraid. Be very afraid…..

Here’s a cost saving idea: Put signs up around the area where it’s being held prominently warning that anyone entering the area does so entirely at their own risk and then give the police the day off.

A few grand for signs, police released from the 12 month planning exercise and £7 million quid saved.

Simples! I was in Martinique for the carnival there and apart from burning down the local bank and my being asked to hand over my wallet at knifepoint (I wasn’t carrying one!) it all went off rather well…

In the old days I used to live in “North Kensington”, aka the less posh end of Ladbroke Grove. I remember going to (the) carnival around 30 years ago and finding myself lifted off my feet and carried along by the throng of people rushing forward to get a better view. It’s scary when you can’t control which way you are moving – and easy to imagine slipping and being trampled underfoot. That, and the feeling that my dental fillings were being shaken loose by the pile-driver-like bass notes emitted from the vast speakers, were enough for me never to wish to go again.

I moved to North Kensington three years after the race riots of 1959. We lived in a house belonging to the railway, just down from the Cowshed (my late dad’s local and also the pub used in the exterior shots of “Time Gentlemen Please”). I spent my teenage years around Ladbroke Grove and Portobello Road. I must have walked every street from the Harrow Road to South Kensington. Yes I know the area very well. I remember the hippies in Portobello Road and Kensington Market and the huge sound systems used for the house parties. I remember Island Records studio in Basing St and getting my first guitar from Traies Music. But- I am not stupid enough to have attended a Notting Hill Carnival. Anyone who does runs the risk of being mugged, robbed or worse. Anna Raccoon has it spot on in this post

Am I being paranoid, or could this annual event have been an early attempt by the powers-that-be to gauge the public’s tolerance of the joys (as seen from a safe distance) of increased multiculturalism?

“I remember the hippies in Portobello Road”… Ah, Ms Raccoon was one of them – used to have a stall on Portobello Road selling bells threaded onto leather thongs and Moroccan shirts – essential wear for any self respecting hippie – I was what you might call a capitalist hippie….. I would take over the stall belonging to the silver dealer – he only traded early mornings before the na’er-do-wells got up and started trying to nick his stuff – so about 10am I would take over the stall for half the rental. Good spot, suited us both.

Listen you – the stall in Portobello Road was one up on flogging pottery mugs from the ‘railings’ alongside Bayswater Road on a Sunday morning – I thought I’d gone up in the world! I gravitated from Portobello road to a whole shop unit in the Elephant and Castle Shopping Centre so long as I paid the rates – the owner couldn’t flog the unit! Actually the entire enterprise was one up on flogging curtain remnants in Kingston market bought from the man who made Ms Jones’ curtains in Duncroft….I kept his card! You could say we started small….

“Every year, the Chief Constable is rolled out of his normal parking place to assure the baffled crowd that this year ‘the event was relatively peaceful’ despite the fact that half of them are missing their wallets, some are still queueing for attention in the local Accident and Emergency department, and 250 of the drug dealers are noisily hammering on their cell door claiming that their arrest was ‘racist’ and demanding the attendance of the IPCC. One such dealer was relieved of two machine guns and a handgun, crack cocaine and around £78,000 in cash.”

Having just spent two days policing the “Carnival” for about the 15th time in my career reading this was an accurate representation of events (apart from the Chief Constable error that I was beaten to above!). I hate doing it but have little choice.The Sunday for me is normal wages (day off cancelled and put forward to today) but double-time on the Monday.It is always hilarious when revelers accuse me of getting “treble time” which has never happened in my whole career. Thank God it rained!

Oddly enough, the graun/beeb axis of evil, appear to have missed the chance to report the multiple stabbings and roberies carried out by black youths in our capital city .They were too busy with their extensive coverage of one dead black robbers funeral in obscuresville USA

Like Jaded I too had the delights of policing the ‘Carnival’, my experience ranges from the late 70’s to the early 00’s in a variety of roles. All I can say is I did not enjoy the experience at all (to put it mildly). The carnival just confirmed to me that most of those who attended to celebrate had suspended their critical thinking functions. I found it a thoroughly seedy, disheartening and at times downright dangerous experience and to this day I take great care to avoid crowds if I can.

Reminds me of a rather innocent Carnival parade I saw in Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic a couple of years ago. A fat white man of about 60 was dressed as a missionary in a large cooking pot (with leg holes) while a troupe of black boys in grass skirts and body and face painting and wielding spears made from whittled tree branches danced around him, anticipating a good cook-out. A good time was had by all. Or perhaps he converted them all in the nick of time, I don’t know.

Just having Carni-Fool season (as I insist on calling it) down here in deepest North Norfuck at the moment. Never understood the point of it myself, Carnifool needing an historically catholic, if not down right Jesuit, cultural background and SUNSHINE to ‘work’ IMO (or Alpine Heathenism but that is a very different creature-which centres on driving the demons OUT -not inviting them in for a Mojito and a knee trembler against the wall of the local samba school) . The whole point of Carneval was to sin at least two of major Mortal, deadly, sins namely Gluttony and Lust.

Norfuck Carni-Fool seems to require the virtues of patience and grace, at least on the part of the Kagool clad tourists and locals who actually want to GET SOMEWHERE this side of Michaelmas. Although the major sins of anger, posting kebabs through thy neighbour’s letterbox and drinking 15 pints of Snake Bite (it’s Norfolk, come on) seem to manifest themselves as the day progresses.

I heard the Senior Lady Super on the radio last evening; she seemed a bit “out of it all.” I’m sure she’ll do well.

I was stuck in Blenheim Crescent many years ago and had to endure this. It was utterly ghastly. My hosts, who were silly enough (then) to think it cool, asked me my impressions. I replied: “It’s what Rorke’s Drift must have felt like, but less civilised…”

Dat Nottin Hill Carnage am cause by de Nottin Hill Coonage! Respect dat! While a group are allowed to mug, rob rape and pillage without consequence, why should things get better? I’m sure Jaded will confirm that there has NEVER been a carnival without grief and mayhem.

I am probably terribly uncool. I lived in London for 20 years, and never attended this thing. Not so much the violence. I could just never understand what you’re supposed to be going there for, or to do. Any images I’ve ever seen of it on telly etc, people are just kind of milling about in a crowd. I can do that anywhere. Average high street on a Saturday, I can be in a crowd, milling about. I’m not really a crowd sort of person. When I’m in one, I tend to feel a strong urge to get out of it. The crowd I mean, not the state of intoxication. So I’ve never really “got” what it’s for.

We had local carnivals here in Northants, when I was a kid. There was one at Desborough, I recall. You stood and watched some badly decorated lorries drive by. I never understood that either. My mum had a story about, as a girl (she was born in 1934), being on a carnival float dressed as a harem girl with a yashmak. That would probably be culturally insensitive these days.

Most of them rely on civic handouts to community groups I imagine….. That seems to be how Notting Hill got started. I was amazed to read that it was in some ways sponsored by the BBC…. why am I no longer as surprised as I used to be?…..

When I was in Scotland the “village” (Actually a small scheme added onto the side of a town like a carbuncle; had its own “carnival.

GREAT so it was. A dodgy car carrying the local councillor, followed by the local orange band, which was followed by for or five chav scum pushing prams, with a balloon or two attached. In a REALLY good year, some of the prams even had all their wheels!